Gather 'round, you people, and a story I will tell
About a brave, young Indian you should remember well
From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band,
They farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona-land.
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed.
Now, Ira's folks were hungry and their farms were crops of weeds,
But, when war came, he volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war,
Yes, call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up Iwo Jima hill two hundred and fifty men,
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down that hill again
And, when the fight was over and Old Glory raised,
One of the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war,
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
Now, Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land,
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand,
But he was just a Pima Indian – no money, no crops, no chance –
And at home nobody cared what Ira done and the wind did the Indians' dance.
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war,
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
And Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home –
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone.
He died drunk early one morning alone in the land he'd fought to save,
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes.
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war,
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died.
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war,
Call him "Drunken" Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore,
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.